


home shit home

by telekinesiskid



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone is Upset, Gen, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, hearing damage, the gang bails ronan out of jail, victim blaming behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10135991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid/pseuds/telekinesiskid
Summary: Ronan offers his brother a cursory flip of the bird, and then his eyes move to find yours. “Alright, Parrish?”“Yeah.” You nod. “Yeah.” But the silence from everyone that follows says otherwise.(AU in which Adam doesn't press charges against his father after Ronan's arrest, leading to some friction within the gang)





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was just supposed to be a small effortless 'what if' story but this has already gone thru so many revisions buh, just let me post it and be done with it, please, also I am sorry if anyone is grossly ooc
> 
> thank you to my long-suffering wife [kiiouex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex) who beta'd, of course

The three of you go to pick him up.

You ride in the backseat of the Pig, Blue’s hand relentlessly curled around yours. She tries desperately to look into your eyes and not the discolouration still blossomed around them, on your cheekbone, at your freshly wounded ear, which hasn’t heard anything other than deadness and periodic bursts of high-pitched agony for almost four days now. She smiles at you like she doesn’t see it, but if she’s looking at you then she’s looking right at it.

You face forward. You try not to catch Gansey’s eye in the rear-view.

He parks just outside the police station. Declan’s car is already there, and Declan is already heading inside, looking crisp even on a day he would be forgiven for looking a little rumpled. He turns only to give you all a begrudging look of acknowledgement before resuming his stride, slow enough for you all to catch up and form a group. The Regrettable Acts of Ronan Lynch party.

You wait for some time, humdrum on one side, achy numbness on the other. You’re seated on a robust bench, your feet planted firmly on the ground, and yet the world still tilts when you’re not watching it. At least it no longer somersaults when you close your eyes. Blue’s hand continues to cling to yours even as sweat and awkward positioning conspire to make it more of a chore than a comfort. With your free hand, you carefully place it over your deaf ear, as if you could hold the pain that trickles out of it. For a while, you just listen to your ear’s heartbeat.

Gansey leans forward to whisper, “Does it hurt?”

“What?”

He points. “Your ear, does it hurt?”

You lower your hand. “I’m fine.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“Gansey.”

It’s a warning to back off, and he does, grimacing with reluctance. You’re not reviving this conversation here, in front of Blue, for snippets to be caught by passing civil servants who could gossip about it over their coffee breaks. He always has an answer to everything and it’s infuriating. You don’t have the insurance nor the money to cover hospital bills? Gansey will pay. You can’t afford to miss anymore school or work? Gansey advises gravely, “Your health should come first.” You think it’s too late for a doctor to repair your hearing damage? Gansey berates, “You should’ve gone to A&E immediately,” as if he thinks there’s any value in telling you this other than to make you feel worse than you already do.

A pair of heavy-duty doors open and you all stand as Ronan finally steps out, accompanied by a guard. The sight of him quickens your heart; he still has flecks of dried blood on his shirt, and his face is about as pretty as yours right now, both mottled by the same fists. His pink knuckles stand out on his white skin, scabbed but healing. He holds in his stiff hands the personal artefacts on him at the time of his arrest: Swiss army knife, car keys, scuffed-up credit cards, a dead cell phone. He turns his lowered head back to the guard, mutters something about missing a lighter and a packet of crisps. No one returns them to him.

He walks a little lopsided, favouring the side that didn’t take the brunt of bad jail beds or your father’s sustained punches. He stands before you all, nodding and meeting everyone’s eye. “Thanks for coming,” he says, only a little facetious.

The corners of Gansey’s eyes wrinkle sadly. “Of course.” Then he starts to chew on his lip. “You’ve, um… You’ve been expelled.”

Ronan scoffs. The guard slaps his shoulder twice before taking off. “Figures.”

You wince as Declan barks from beside you, “That’s all you’ve got to say. ‘Figures’.”

Ronan offers his brother a cursory flip of the bird, and then his eyes move to find yours. “Alright, Parrish?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “Yeah.”

But the silence from everyone that follows says otherwise.

Gansey’s nerves move him to fill that silence before you can. “Adam says he’s convinced his father to drop the charges against you.” He speaks with a well-enunciated lilt; you can’t tell if it’s because he’s struggling to keep his emotions in check by making light of them, or if he’s talking like he thinks he’s parroting your lies. “So maybe we could speak to the principal about it. See if we can arrange something.”

“Don’t bother,” Ronan says. He jerks his chin at the door. “Are we gonna leave or what?”

The conversation is put on hold as you all awkwardly shuffle out of the police station, but you feel several more tiers awkward than everyone else. Cold, clinical stares from the staff only remind you that Ronan has spent three nights in there, which is three more nights than he should have.

Declan falls to the back of the group to hiss something private to his brother, but Ronan responds, loud and abrasive, “You know damn well graduation was never in the cards. Believe me; I’m not going to regret my expulsion.”

“Ronan,” Gansey sighs. “You don’t know that.”

Blue asks, clearly sceptical, “You’re not at all bothered that you won’t have even a basic high school qualification?”

Ronan shakes his head as he busily pockets all of his belongings into his bomber jacket. “Won’t need it. It’s not useful to me, where I’m going.”

“And where _are_ you going?” Declan asks, aggrieved but masochistic enough to hear the obviously bullshit answer that’s coming.

Ronan grins at him, even though the split lip must hurt. “Greener pastures.”

“Oh for _fuck’s_ sake, Ronan,” Declan barks, and the mood shifts to an awful place no one wanted it to be. “Stop joking around. You and I are going to see the principal, right now.”

Ronan laughs, and it’s a jarring mess. Your stomach knots. “Fuck off. I only just got released from one institute’s custody; I’m not about to put myself into yours.”

“Oh you will. And you’re not living in that stinking manufacturing plant anymore; you’re coming to live with me and Matthew in the dorms, where you should be.”

“They won’t let me stay in the dorms if they won’t let me back into their school, you fucking idiot.”

Declan stops moving and glares at his brother with that sharp, taut line of his mouth that either means the cogs are turning for a cutting one-liner, or he’s seconds away from grabbing him. Gansey sees it too and steps in before the situation can escalate. “Declan,” he tries, calm but firm, “He’s tired. Just let him rest for a while.”

You and Declan watch Ronan lose interest in the lot of you and walk off. Declan attempts to dodge around Gansey; Gansey’s hands fly up to keep Declan at bay. “He’s _tired,”_ Gansey pleads, “No matter what you say or do, he’s not going to go with you today. Please, try talking to him tomorrow.”

Declan shoves him off, eyes never leaving Ronan’s retreating backside, but he has no choice but to take his leave. Everyone left is quiet as Declan stomps to his car, slams the door and speeds down the street.

“Oh, he’s right there,” Gansey sighs, relieved, and you turn to see Ronan leaning against the Pig. Hands in pockets, attracting stink eyes, looking every bit the delinquent skinhead who was just released from jail. You think if he had a beer in his hand right now that nothing, not even being several feet from a police station, would stop him from drinking it. “I thought he’d wandered off.”

“He looks like he’s waiting for witnesses to clear before he’ll hotwire your car,” Blue says.

“Mm. He probably is.” Gansey pulls his keys from his pocket and holds them out to Blue. “Could you let him in before they arrest him again?”

Blue’s hand squeezes yours before she lets go. Now it’s just you and Gansey.

“Adam.”

You try to follow after her.

Gansey follows you. “Adam?” His voice is gentle and well-meaning in a way that makes you nauseous. “If you’d like to press charges, you know it’s not too late. I’d help you.”

“No,” you mumble, “It is too late.”

“I’m sure they’d understand.”

Your brow twitches. It’s rich of Gansey to talk of _understanding_ when he still doesn’t understand the situation himself. It puts a barb in your throat, but you do your best to speak around it.

“It’s not my fault Ronan got himself expelled, Gansey.”

“I…” Gansey blinks. “I didn’t say it was.”

“No one asked him to get involved. He shouldn’t have interfered.”

You feel the heat of Gansey’s stare without even looking at it. “Just like the police shouldn’t have interfered?” He puts his hand on your arm to stop you and turns you toward him. “Well, what was he supposed to do? If you’d seen me or Blue or anyone else getting beaten by their parent, would you have just walked away? God, Adam, your father’s already taken your hearing; what more damage will you let him inflict on you before enough is enough?”

You look away, eyes stinging. You don’t want to fight again, not so soon, not in the middle of the street, not within earshot of Ronan and Blue and the Henrietta police. Not with your head pounding and an ill, off-balance pressure in your ear you’ll never be able to pop.

“Come on, Adam,” Gansey urges, achingly sincere. “The police station is right there. Let’s just tell them what really happened.”

_“No.”_

“Why?”

You look at him, incredulous. Why? Because you’re scared. Scared that a confessional to the police would only result in a slap on the wrist for your father and a shared jovial, joshy comment about Kids These Days. Scared that, even if your father were arrested and spent the couple of nights in jail in Ronan’s place, he would only return home angrier, scarier. Scared what your mother would say, of what the neighbours would say, of what the criminal justice system would say. Scared of losing your life, scared of living.

But you can’t tell him that you’re scared. Instead you tell him in a voice not as calm and even as you remember it, “I don’t know.”

The two of you jolt as the Pig honks. You see Ronan in the passenger side, hand pressed to the steering wheel’s horn, Blue trying to pull him off from somewhere in the back. Ronan’s stare is hollow and impatient, and you hate that you feel some module of _guilt_ that forces you to hurry back to the Pig, Gansey helplessly in tow.

You shuffle into the backseat, slam the door. Blue rests her hand palm-up beside your thigh, but even after you buckle up, you don’t take it. After another few seconds, her hand slinks away.

Voices and engines become a background din that’s dwarfed by the off-pitch whining and throbbing absence in your ear. You eventually make out what sounds like “Parrish?” and turn to see Ronan, clearly not fastened into his seat, craning over the headrest to gawk at you.

You frown at him. “What?”

“…Are you kidding me? Are you ignoring me or are you deaf?”

You tap your good ear irritably. “Speak into this ear from now on, asshole.”

His face blanks. “What? Why?”

But you don’t need to explain why. You’ve said all you need to for him to understand, and with a pointed twist of your head, you invite him to stare at the purplish reds of your mottled, probably-damaged-beyond-repair ear.

After you give him a good eyeful, he sits back down. Even though you don’t hear it, you watch him mutter, “Christ,” under his breath.

“I told him he ought to go to a hospital,” Gansey grumbles.

“Oh god, give it a rest,” Blue moans. “My aunt took a look at his ear and said there’s nothing we can do but relieve the pain; the damage has been done.”

“With all due respect, Jane,” Gansey responds, scathingly polite, “I don’t believe a witch’s sage-flavoured water with a generous splash of gin is as valuable as an educated doctor’s prognosis.”

Blue claps with heavy sarcasm. _“Real_ clever, Gansey. Witches. We haven’t heard that one before.”

“I’m just saying,” he protests, “that modern medicine might yield better results.”

“I’m not paying three hundred dollars for a doctor to tell me something I already know,” you mumble.

Gansey throws you such a pained and frustrated look.

“Eyes on the road, Dick,” Ronan mumbles, and Gansey slides him a look with a little more open hostility.

“You’re not dropping out of school.”

“I didn’t drop out; I was kicked out. Big difference.”

“There’s not much difference if you don’t at least try to get back in.”

“Fuck off,” Ronan snarls, leaning away from the driver’s side. “If I wanted a fucking lecture on this I’d have picked a ride with Dick-clan over you.”

“Don’t be a child.”

“Oh my god—could you lay off everyone, please?” Blue demands, and Gansey makes that startled, scandalised face in the rear-view, like he had absolutely no idea he was maliciously, methodically treading on everyone’s toes. “We get that you’re angry, we do, but could you not take it out on everyone, _please?”_

“I’m not angry,” he says, and no one believes him. The more he lightens up his voice and smiles doesn’t make it any more convincing. “Really, I’m not angry at all. I’m just… I’m just a little concerned.”

“Don’t be concerned about Lynch, Gansey; he’ll be just fine,” you say tersely. “He’s already told you he doesn’t want to go to school, so he won’t. It’s not as if another year and a half is going to make him any smarter anyway.”

“Ouch, Parrish,” Ronan says. “You calling me a dumbass?”

“No.” You pause, collecting your thoughts. “I’m calling you pig-headed.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Gansey gapes like he’s just been slapped. Or like his best friend was just slapped by his other best friend, right in front of him.

You catch Ronan’s glare in the wing mirror. You meet it unabashedly, calm and unblinking for a few seconds, and then you give your attention to something with a little more value. The dirt under your nails, the stains on your overalls, the pizza receipts and fast food wrappers that litter the Pig’s floor.

Your request, “Could you take me back?” is the first voice spoken in over five minutes of tense, hurt silence.

Gansey miserably shakes his head. “I can’t in good conscience take you back to that place, Adam.”

“Drop me off right here then.”

“Wait, _what?”_ Ronan swivels around in his seat to stare incredulously at Gansey and then stare incredulously at you. “Don’t fucking tell me you’re still living in that shithole with those shitheads.”

Your eyes narrow. “That ‘shithole’ is my home, and those ‘shitheads’ are my parents.”

“What the _fuck,”_ he shouts, and even Gansey, who’s surely jubilantly vindicated Ronan is echoing his sentiments in ways he never could, puts a hand on him in an attempt to get him to back down. “Why haven’t you moved the fuck out already? Come live with us.”

Your tone is dry. “No thanks.”

“Ronan,” Gansey murmurs, adjusting his hand, but Ronan elbows it off.

“Go live with her then!”

Blue says in a small voice, and not for the first time, “I know my house is pretty full, but we always make more room somehow. It’d be no trouble to have you with us.”

You wave off all their earnest offers, just as you did three days ago. “I don’t need to stay with anyone. And _no,_ I don’t want your money to stay somewhere else. Look, can you just drop me off?”

The Pig gradually rolls to a stop. Ronan fixes you with a heavy look you can’t ignore, a look that says, _I went to jail for you, asshole._

You feel a twinge of some twisted emotion that’s better left sobbed and screamed into pillows, hidden behind closed doors. But he didn’t go to jail for you, you remind yourself. You never fucking asked him to.

You grab the door handle, but you’re not done. “You don’t fucking know how hard it is. You don’t appreciate what I went through just to get him to drop the charges against you. You’re all just— _criticising me,_ even when you have no idea what it’s like to try to press charges against your own father.”

Ronan mutters, “It’d be fucking easy if my dad ever beat the shit out of me.”

You shake your head. You can’t even think of the words to tell him just how wrong he is, so you just open the door. You barely remember to put an arm around Blue before you leave the Pig, meeting the eyes of few, saying goodbye to no one. Ronan winds down the window, not to have the last word, but to lean out and stare in that overly-intense, hostile manner that he does. You don’t even look as the Pig throws up little dust clouds and starts to trundle away, leaving you alone. Just like you wanted, you guess.

Before you’ve even made it to the line-up of battered, grimy mailboxes that mark the entrance to your trailer park, you’re in tears and shaking.

As you walk down the driveway you wonder, not for the first time in the past couple of days, if you’ve made a mistake.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me p much all waking (nz) hours on [tumblr](http://telekinesiskid.tumblr.com/)


End file.
